


Treachery

by Yuki1014o



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Gen, I tried but there'll most definitely be some inaccuracy somewhere here, I'm spitting it out in fanfic format instead of notes format, Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact of 1939, Setting: August 23rd Moscow- the Kremlin, be it historical or geographical or both, this is actually just the author internalizing history, warning for the auths being themselves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 12:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30088848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuki1014o/pseuds/Yuki1014o
Summary: They first meet in the Kremlin gardens, late August, black leather boots ringing out hard on the stone, brought together for the signing of a ten-year pact that will ultimately last barely two.
Relationships: Communist & White Identitarian| Nazi (Centricide), Not a ship fic - Relationship
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	Treachery

Commie watches the other ideology for a number of seconds before finally breathing deep and showing himself. He want to...make a good impression, perhaps. That is what this is all about, after all—making a good enough impression to keep peace between their respective regimes for _just long enough_. And while Commie is relatively sure Germany and the Soviet Union are going to work it out, at least temporarily, there is something to be said for the worth of _them_ finding mutual understanding; they are ideologically tied closely enough to their countries for it to matter.

The other ideology sharply twists his head to look at him. His lips press thin. He had been standing (not quite leaning) against one of the stone walls. His colors are deep blue, tinted with something iron-silver. Commie can’t tell if the shade is only moonlight reflecting off his form.

Commie clear his throat and musters a smile. “Hello! Western force! How have you enjoyed Russia?”

The other ideology just stares, silently, form still, not even a twitch. Commie would think him dead bar the movement in his eyes and the minute darker shift to his colors. And like that, he looks—striking.

 _Like a toy soldier_ , Commie thinks. Dressed down in perfect sharp uniform, black leather boots cutting off below the knees, carefully ironed fabric, red armband stark against the surrounding black. There is something so... _constructed_ feeling, about him. Something that puts Commie at ill-ease. From his platinum blonde hair to his icy blue eyes to the symmetry of his features. He looks like something made of porcelain and paint—like a little patriotic figurine that could be tucked on a shelf between dolls and storybooks.

The silence between them is quickly veering from stiff into awkward, and Commie resists the urge to shift on his feet. The—

“….Can you speak German?” The other ideology (who Commie is still not entirely sure the proper name of—humans can name them, but it is better to ask an ideology themselves what they want to be called) asks. There is something in his tone that implies he does not expect a positive answer.

Commie is a little offended at the insinuation. He might be an authoritarian, a brand of patriotic in his own right, but he is an _international_ authoritarian. “Noch! Ich kann Deutsch. Ich—”

“Stop speaking this _instant_ ,” the other interrupts, grimaces. Shakes his head. “I take it back. I refuse to hold a conversation with my mother tongue being done such grievous disrespect in your accent. You butcher her. I should not have expected anything more from a _Slav_.”

Commie frowns hard. Has to hold himself back from commenting on the fact that the other’s accent is _far_ thicker than his. Diplomacy. “...Right,” he says, “that aside, I am Authoritarian Communist. Or Marxist. Or just Commie. Any one is alright. I do not mind.” He holds out his hand.

The other stares at it with a critical eyes. Another beat of tense silence. The German reaches into his pocket and brings out a single white glove. Slips it onto his hand. Only _then_ does he complete the handshake, fingers briefly pressing around Commie’s hand through thick fabric. The clasp breaks quickly, and the other gingerly peels his glove off, outside surface folding in, and stuffs the glove back in his pocket.

Commie’s very skin crawls.

“...I am National Socialist,” the other says, after another moment of seeming contemplation, “ _Nationalsozialistische—_ Nazi. You may call me by Nazi.”

The previous discomfort immediately pushes aside. “Socialist!” He exclaims. “I thought you did not look it! Comrade, it is a delight to meet you!”

“...I am...not exactly a traditional socialist,” Nazi says, tone cautious, “I simply...dislike the globalism it brings—the influence it holds. Capitalist democracies...hah. No, there are _certain_ orchestrators of that rot that must go. Greedy manipulative pigs, really. Financial capitalism in unacceptable.”

“Yes!” Commie agrees, brightly, feeling a little rosy at the words, despite a crawling feeling that there’s some sort of double meaning there. He steps closer, almost close enough to touch, and—

Nazi moves away immediately. His leather boots sound hard on the stone. “Keep distance. Don’t touch me.”

“...Ah,” Commie says, once again pulled into unease. He nods. “Right, of course. That’s fine. You have enjoyed Russia so far, yes? Performance was impressive, yes?”

“...Your Slavic country does not interest me in the slightest,” Nazi says. “I hold no respect for the culture and achievements of Untermensch.”

“Hah,” says Commie, and his stomach twists a bit.

He has been so focused on his own country, the internal matters of his own regime, that he has not been paying such careful attention to the outside world. But he has heard...unpleasant things, about Germany. And perhaps Commie has no right to speak on this, because he knows full well that cruelty is a necessity, and he has only just barely finished a purge—(he refuses to call it mass murder. What is a few hundred thousand lives in the scheme of things?)—but even to him, there is something just a little—

Nazi smiles, thin and cold. “Don’t take it too personally. You’re just another of the rest. It’s simply natural order.”

“...” Commie taps his boot against the stone. Straightens a little. Breathes in, breathes out. It’s mid-August, and the and feels just a little warm, despite the night hour. Around them the green gardens of the Kremlin tint ever so slightly silver beneath the stars. Inside one of those building, representatives of both their countries and talking through what should bring security for both regimes. _Diplomacy_. “...Anyhow, how do you think they are doing in there?”

“I’m not opinionated,” Nazi says, “You’ll be fools not to accept our offer. We both know the current state of your military.”

The Soviets cannot currently afford double-front conflict. They just need a little _time_. Just a little time to recover.

“It’s true that talks with you are going more productively than with Britten and France. _Funny_ , considering how fiercely Germany has spit rhetoric against us.”

Nazi looks at him sharply. “Are you implying something?”

Commie raises a brow. “Am I?”

“Germany would…. _never_ encroach on Soviet land,” Nazi says, and something about it rings like a lie. “There is no such territorial plan. We would keep the hundred year non aggression pact.”

“Not a hundred years,” Commie says, “only ten. We do not need more.”

“...Perhaps,” says Nazi.

“For the record,” Commie says, “We would never war on Germany either.”

(A lie, of course, but is this conversations not already full of dishonesty? Current Germany is expansionary and the Soviet Union is imperialist. They are bound to clash eventually. Commie will not rest until the world is conquered. It is in his very nature. He crystallized like this: one part theory, one part tangled mess of human emotion, and with an all-consuming desire to paint the whole world in red, until all it knows is the color of his brilliance.)

Tension, tension, tension, Commie half expects an argument and the silence between them feels tense and full of static. His skin pricks. And—

“Well,” says Nazi, “we’ll see.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hnnnn, I hope you liked this! It seems pretty niche haha. I kinda wanna portray a slightly different version of Nazi than I usually do? I ended up doing way too much background reading for this. I wonder if it shows haha. I also wanted to exercise my prose a bit.
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read! <3 constructive criticism is welcome, and, per usual, comments make me very happy


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